


keep singing to me

by thefloatingcity



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Lullabies, M/M, but theres so much fluff at the end, curse words, harry hates himself, harrys hurt and at the hospital, i cried, lots of fucking angst at first, peter singing, tw because self-loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefloatingcity/pseuds/thefloatingcity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart didn't feel like beating anymore—he wanted his heart to disappear, to crack and evaporate and become a puny, shriveled organ that would never work. He was alone. Peter, after seeing his only hope die, would never would visit him. Why was he kept alive? Forced to endear this unbearable amounts of emotional pain?</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep singing to me

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

That's all the male in the hospital bed could hear from his damaged ear-drums—the persistent beating of a machine, a machine that buzzed and beeped calmly, leaving the man to awaken with hazy, slow movements.  Pain flared throughout his shoulder, exploded in his head, and ached across his chest and fingers even as the delicate gestures to move upwards was slow and steady-ish. He felt sickened, gross; he felt perpetually drained as if all energy was permanently drained from his body, he had a headache that raged and pounded against his skull, and it was hard to keep a pained noise inside.

Memories seeped throughout into his mind, a intensely heavy weight laying and stretching across his chest and throat, a surge of panic waking him up more freely. All he remembered was detached laughter, his own voice sounding disembodied and mangled, and the yell of a familiar voice. Peter. 

"Oh no.. no no no no no," the man, Harry, spoke with a horrid realization; god damnit, he ruined everything, he lost all goddamn chances with his friend—Gwen's dead because of him. His girlfriend was killed because of him, Harry fucking Osborn. Tears burned his eyes languidly, as if waiting for permission, throat internally swelling up to keep the tears away, to not allow himself to go that level, but instead he made a pitiful whimper, similar to a stray dog, begging for food. 

Eyes glanced at his hands. Shaky, a sickly pale, veins finally invisible again, each nail cut down enough that the edges bled with scarlet beads. If his hands looked as hideous as his face, no wonder Peter would ignore him. He stared at the machine next to him, which determined his heart rate, catching a glimpse of himself. Parts and chunks of hair were sizzled away, veins protruding across his forehead and across his cheeks in a webbed-like pattern, lips reduced to a thin line, regular teeth grown back, nevertheless broken and chipped on multiple areas.

His heart didn't feel like beating anymore—he wanted his heart to disappear, to crack and evaporate and become a puny, shriveled organ that would never work. He was alone. Peter, after seeing his only hope die, would never would visit him. Why was he kept alive? Forced to endear this unbearable amounts of emotional pain? 

A nurse strolled in at that moment, eyes apprehensively watching Harry. "Are you feeling okay?" She questioned, watching as Harry's lower lip trembled, eyes leaking liquid that soaked his cheeks. He nodded his head eventually. 

"That all can be fixed, you know. Plastic surgery, maybe." 

"I'd rather look like a goblin, thank you." His voice sounded ragged, ruined, savagely wasted, tone of voice wiped away, only a bare shell of a voice remaining. The nurse nodded, in a soothing nature she sent him a smile.

"Someone has been waiting for you—want me to send him in?"

Peter. Why would he visit him, wait for him to awaken, when he destroyed his life by ruining his girlfriend's life? She was now nothing but a hole in the ground because of him. If he got a penny everytime a surge of self-loath made the tears more quicker, he'd be richer than the three richest men alive combined. He didn't speak, only simply blinking at him, colors fading away then returning only in splotches, which finally caught up and showed every color again. 

She left after a while, but someone replaced her wake. 

Inhale, exhale. Inhalation, exhalation. 

"Why are you here?" Harry's eyes immediately diverted their attention to the creme-and-white colored linoleum, checkered floors, the clean ground suddenly fascinating. His shoulders shaking from the tears, which seemed more impending and threatening now, since Peter Parker leaned against the threshold. His cheek had stitches placed on his upper cheekbone, his lower lip slightly scarred with a tiny cut, forehead patched up. Peter went to part his lips, to speak, but the only thing he said was nothing, because right then and there, Harry let out a cry that made him curl his shoulders in a surrendering motion. 

He didn't allow himself to breathe during the inhales of sobs, he let himself choke on the tears, the lack of oxygen, allowing himself to gasp and cry, choke and scream, clutch his hair and curl away into a vulnerable ball. He was defenseless, he was weak, he was not the cocky Harry Osborn anymore. A soothing hand pressed against his back, fingers massaging the burning skin slowly, while Harry screamed curse words at himself, degrading his own nature, calling himself a dick, a worthless piece of shit, a stupid bitch, anything that wad hurtful, he yelled it at himself until his throat burned and his voice cracked. 

Peter had felt remorse towards Harry, afterwards. Before, he was angry. He was devastated, he was pissed, but right now? He gave Harry a reassuring squeeze on the shoulders, scooping the helpless man into his arms, craddling him into his chest as Harry sobbed all seventy-five percent water out his burning eyes, his mesmerizing eyes reduced to a dark blue. "Shh, Harry," he finally spoke, words trembling as Harry's fit seemed to dampen his mood considerably. He wanted to sob with him. In a wavering voice, he continued, but his voice was more soft, reassuring, comforting, loving.

"Hush little baby don't say a word,  
papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird,  
if that mockingbird don't sing,  
papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring,  
if that diamond ring turns brass,  
papa's gonna buy you a looking glass,  
if that looking glass broke,  
papa's gonna buy you a billy goat,  
if that billy goat won't pull,  
papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull,  
if that cart and bull turn over,  
papa's going to buy you a dog named Rover,   
If that dog named Rover won't bark,  
papa's gonna to buy you a horse and cart,   
if that horse and cart fall down,  
you'll still be the cutest boy in town,  
so hush little baby, don't you cry  
my aunt still loves you, and so do I." 

Harry's sobs during the duration of the sweet lullaby began to fade away into soft, scared whimpers, lip trembling as his frail body shoke in his chest. Peter's fingers traced his sickeningly and shockingly cold cheek, a boiling feeling wanting to scream at him for hurting him, for hurting Gwen, for hurting himself but that—that could wait. Harry's alone. No family to comfort him. No one. So, to rid Harry of that scared demeanor, he sang again. 

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,  
you make me happy, when skies are grey,  
you'll never know dear, how much I love you,  
so please don't take my sunshine away."


End file.
